


Moments

by backfire



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, F/M, Missing Scene, Sexual Content, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:40:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23380021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfire/pseuds/backfire
Summary: “So you wanna dance, or something?”Fuck it, Allie thinks. What has she got to lose?(Or: A series of could-have-beens and missing moments from around the show.)
Relationships: Harry Bingham/Allie Pressman
Comments: 11
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched this show last week and then I lost my mind.
> 
> Reader’s choice whether or not these are interconnected or independent - can be taken either way!

“So you wanna dance, or something?”

Harry’s not even looking at her when he asks, the question nearly mumbled, dragged out of his mouth like he said the words just to fill dead space without any real meaning behind them.

Still, Allie considers. Will is out there dancing with Kelly, Cassandra’s making all of Gordie’s wishes come true, and she’s really put on the most expensive dress in her closet just to be in a bad mood all night. 

Harry doesn’t look like he’s faring much better. He seems to be deep in his cups already, leaning over the side of the bar listlessly, hair curling over his forehead and looking rather morose.

Fuck it, Allie thinks. What has she got to lose? 

“Sure,” she answers after a moment. 

Harry finally perks up slightly at this, lifting his head and turning around to face her. His eyes, which had before seemed far away, sharpen a bit. “Seriously?” he asks, as if he hasn’t expected her to answer at all. 

Allie shrugs. “Yeah, what the hell?”

Some of his signature Harry Bingham air seems to come back to him then, because he laughs slightly to himself and then takes a final swig of whiskey from the bottle before extending his arm out for her.

Allie raises her eyebrows at that but sets her own drink down and obliges. His hand settles on the small of her back as he guides her to the dance floor. 

His hand is warm as it presses through the silky fabric of her dress, or maybe it’s the alcohol burning in her belly, but it feels nice. Allie dimly registers the look on Cassandra’s face from her position at the photo booth at the other end of the room, but she decides to push the thought from her mind, ignoring the tiny, vindictive part of her that says, _”Take that.”_

Harry notices too, it seems. “Wonder what she thinks,” he says as he slides his hands around her waist. The song is upbeat and retro-sounding, and they fall into a rhythm that comes easier than Allie thought it would. 

“I swear to god, if you asked me to dance to make my sister mad, I will stomp on you in these heels,” Allie says, but she’s smiling, the music too infectious, the crowd around her moving in time. Harry laughs and twirls her until she lands with a small thump flush against his chest. 

“You have a stain on your shirt, you know?” she says, extracting herself looking up at him. 

“I didn’t,” he says, but he’s not talking about the stain. “That’s not why I asked you.”

Allie blinks. He looks at her in a way — the way he had the night of his party, by the pool, like he’s seeing her for the first time and is seeing not the shadow of Cassandra Pressman, but _her_ , Allie. Something static and warm settles in her stomach at the thought.

They keep dancing after that; Harry’s surprisingly good, taking her hand when he’s supposed to, touching her back or waist when he’s supposed to, moving fluidly. The drinks she had are really hitting her now, and she laughs as Harry spins her around, losing herself in the moment, forgetting all about the fucked up situation they’re in. She can hear him laughing too, and she’s glad; he really had seemed unlike himself earlier, moping at the bar all alone.

This is more like the Harry she knows, the one who had ruled West Ham High, the one who arranges irresponsible, wildly fun games of fugitive just for something to do. 

The song melts into something slow and, unwilling to let the moment be over and go back to being moody, Allie finds herself looping her arms around Harry’s neck and swaying softly to the melody.

“So then, why?” Allie asks as Harry draws her in a little closer, hands returning warm and steady to her waist. 

“Why what?” Harry asks, the corner of his lips pulled upwards.

“Why’d you ask me to dance?”

“Why’d you say yes?” he replies, raising an eyebrow. 

Allie thinks about this. Sure, she’s mad at Cassandra right now and yes, some part of her had felt a smug satisfaction at the look on her sister’s face when she’d seen Allie with Harry Bingham across the room.

But that’s not the only reason she said yes. She’d be lying if she told herself there wasn’t something there between the two of them, even if things would be much easier in the long run if she’d just left it. But she’s tired of making decisions based around Cassandra, and...she wants to do this, okay? She wants it and she wants to not think about it or the consequences of it — the way she did when they played fugitive, and when they’d kissed by the pool, and everything that came after that. 

“Because I wanted to,” she answers honestly. “And yeah, it’s probably not the smartest thing to do right now, given who we are and all,” she continues, “but I don’t care. I don’t want to think about any of that right now.”

Harry’s smirk turns into a real grin, then, and he chuckles slightly as he looks down his eyelashes at her, the both of them still swaying together closely. 

“What?” Allie asks.

“Just...seems like you and I are a lot more alike than you realize, I think.”

“Oh yeah?” Allie challenges. “I thought I was supposed to be peculiar. And intense.”

Harry laughs again at that. “You are,” he says. “But I never said that was a bad thing.” They’re even closer now, pressed together, warm and solid. Allie could count his stupidly long eyelashes if she wanted to. 

Like the last time, Harry leans in without any real preamble, with nothing but the assumption that he’ll get what he wants. But Allie’s prepared this time; she ducks her head down and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and he ends up grazing her cheek instead.

Harry recovers smoothly, standing straight with what seems like practiced grace.

“Did I get something wrong here?” he says after a long pause, looking down at her. God, that’s so like him — he doesn’t even look abashed, just politely confused and genuinely curious. She almost wants to laugh.

Instead she just lifts the corner of her mouth a bit and unclasps her arms around his shoulders. But she doesn’t step fully away, taking his hand in hers. It’s something the Allie from the old world would have never done, but she feels like she can be a little bit bold now. Given everything — she feels like she’s becoming a different person, one that can do this.

“Let’s get some air,” she says, leading him by the hand towards the door. The outside of the venue is empty as Allie takes Harry round the corner of the building, into a quiet shadow weakly lit by a streetlamp some yards away.

Harry, to his credit, looks like he gets it. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks at her, chin tilted downwards and eyes slightly squinted, like he’s trying to figure her out. 

“Too crowded in there, huh?” he says.

Allie shrugs. “Something like that.”

“Thought you said you didn’t care. That you didn’t wanna think about any of that.”

“I didn’t. I don’t,” Allie responds, hand moving up to thumb at the top of her ear, her nervous tic. “Easier said than done, I guess.”

She doesn’t know why she likes Harry. Nothing he’s done has given her any reason to — and he’s done nothing but be an asshole to Cassandra and a general nuisance to all that she and the other girls are trying to accomplish. They want different things, that much is clear.

And yet, it feels like there’s something there — because even though the logic isn’t sound, even though it’s not a good idea, she _does_ like Harry, or at least some part of her does. He’s a fun distraction, something to make her forget for just a little, but he also sees her in a way that no one else quite has before. 

He’s not what she expected; before everything happened, they barely spoke. All she knew of him was his king-of-the-school ego, pompous rich boy, not really her thing. So she’s not sure if this part of him — the one who seems to intuit what she’s thinking, the one who seems cautiously interested, just like her, in going deeper — was there all along and she just never knew, or if that only came to be once they crossed over into this unknown place on those buses.

“Can I ask you something?” he finally says. “Why do you play second fiddle to Cassandra?”

Allie stiffens at that, but Harry puts up two hands in front of himself, placating. “I don’t mean it like that, I know you’re not, I can see that now, but...you have to admit, you play the part. I mean, I hardly knew anything about you before we came to this place. And that feels like a wasted opportunity to me, cause the person I did get to know? She’s pretty cool.”

Allie twists her lips dryly. “It’s what people see, not what I do. No matter what I do, people always see me as just another her. Even if we’re not the same. That’s why she left me off of the committee, you know. We had a fight about it.”

“I don’t believe that,” Harry says. Allie looks at him, puzzled. “It’s what you _let_ people see. And you let people see someone who just follows along.”

“Maybe that’s because I actually do agree with her on how to run things,” Allie says, crossing her arms.

“And just now?” Harry asks, stepping in closer. “Earlier? When you were afraid to let people see you and I together?”

“That’s different.”

“How? You weren’t afraid at my party.”

He’s even closer now, stepping into her personal space, the dim illumination of the streetlight casting his handsome features starkly in shadow.

“It just is,” Allie says, tilting her chin up in a small act of defiance. Truthfully though she’s not sure she believes what she’s saying; she just knows she has to stand her ground, even if there’s an uncomfortable grain of truth in what Harry’s saying.

“It feels nice, you know,” Harry says in a low voice, “to just...let people see. To not have to hide. To just say what you feel. To just do what you want and have people take it or leave it.”

She’s a little annoyed at this. Annoyed and angry, because yes, she _had_ taken Harry out here to kiss him in secret so she wouldn’t have to bear the brunt of judgement from her sister and everyone else had she done it on the dance floor. The way she wanted to, when he’d tilted his head and leaned in. And he’s seen right through her.

Allie uncrosses her arms and puts them around Harry’s shoulders again, one palm pressing against his jaw to bring him down to her level. He follows easily, and she can feel his smirk dashed against his lips when they first meet.

It’s a slow kiss, sort of sweet and sort of understanding — because he’d been right and he knows it, but he’s still giving her this. Their shared secret, so that when they separate Allie can go back to being at Cassandra’s side, and Harry can go back to being the oppositional asshole. He runs his thumb across her cheekbone once, twice, the other hand resting warmly around her waist, before they separate.

“She’s not just anyone, you know,” Allie says after a long moment, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I could stop caring about what everyone else thinks, but not her. She’s my sister.”

For a moment, Harry looks vaguely guilty, like he’s thinking about Cassandra and something he’s done. Allie figures it’s all the time he’s spent challenging her authority and being a general dick.

“Yeah. I get it,” Harry says, and there’s a twinge of something in his voice that definitely hadn’t been there before. He’s avoiding her gaze and she can see it happening — the Harry who had been there moments ago, warm and understanding against her, is slipping away.

Allie just gives him a thin smile and then turns to head back inside to rejoin the others.

Harry follows some minutes later. They don’t speak again the rest of the night, and then Allie goes home and waits for her sister to return.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know you only think I showed up earlier because it’s part of my job, but seriously, Harry. This — this isn’t like you. This isn’t Harry Bingham. It’s scaring me.”
> 
> He has no idea how to tell her that he doesn’t know who Harry Bingham is, that whatever self-inflated sense of identity he had come to this place with is long gone.
> 
> “Don’t waste your time worrying about me,” Harry tells Allie. “I’m not worth it.”
> 
> There’s a long pause at the other end before Allie speaks again. “I’m coming over,” she says, and then hangs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The soundtrack to this chapter is Madame X by Allie X. Please check her out ❤︎

“You have to get back up. Because if I let you sink, I make it okay for other people to do that too, and that’s suicide.”

She’s sitting on the edge of his bed with a look of conviction in her eyes. Like she wants desperately for him to hear her words and believe in them. Harry barely indicates that he’s heard her, eyes momentarily glancing up at her before sliding away again. This is the closest a person has been to him in weeks, and the lack of human interaction has made him acutely aware of everything. The slight warmth as she leans in minutely, the weight of her body creating a dip in his mattress, the smell of her shampoo. 

Dimly, Harry thinks that she’s a good leader, perhaps even better than Cassandra. She’s tough but fair, and does the dirty work. Even when that involves seeing him again. People are alive and they’re being fed. But then he thinks of the blisters on his hands and, more than that, he thinks of his house, his things, everything that he had regarded as his personal sense of identity taken away and distributed among the masses. Even up til a few weeks ago, he’d been resentful. Now he can’t bring himself to care about any of it.

When he doesn’t respond, Allie tries again.

“You have to get up,” she says with more urgency in her voice this time, hitting her hands lightly against the duvet in frustration. There’s something about their position that unlocks something in the back of his mind, unearths a series of memories that he’d forgotten long before they got on those buses all those months ago.

She reminds him of his mother in that moment, when he was little — maybe before his sister had even been born — and would pretend to be sick so he could stay home from school. She, too, had sat on the edge of his bed and told him to get up in that firm, commanding voice.

His mother was not a very affectionate woman and she spared no time for fools, even her own son, especially when he wasn’t even sick. Especially when he was doing it so he could have her attention, just for a little bit. And it worked, at first; she would put her hand against his forehead, brush his hair back gently, warm and tender, and click her tongue in concern.

But soon she saw through him as he continued to pull the same trick over the years, and gone were the soothing touches, replaced by commands to get up. And eventually, even that concern disappeared too, gone first thing in the morning without a word and too unavailable to do anything other than down an Ativan and a glass of wine when she got home from work.

You _have_ to get up, and get back to work,” Allie says, and he realizes it hasn’t even been a second since she last spoke. He feels like it’s been an eternity.

Unexpectedly, she reaches over and grasps his wrist. The moment brings him back — his mother, soothing and kind over her child, when his only wish was to be able to watch cartoons all day. The mix of it with Allie, who’s so near, who, quite without permission from him, _means_ something to him, who has more reason than anyone else in this town to hate him and leave him to rot, is so overwhelming.

He closes his eyes, perhaps to shield himself from the mix of past and present. Tears form at their corners and he just breathes, wraps his fingers around her wrist in return, concentrating purely on the feeling of another person’s skin against his. He doesn’t register whatever she says next, too lost is he in the confusing swirl of longing, despair, and nostalgia.

It’s almost a relief when she pulls away and says something about rations cut in half, no exceptions, get back to work. It’s easy for him to turn his back to her as she leaves and the Guard begin confiscating his things, to slide back into that place of nothingness. One where he doesn’t have to think about his old life, or Allie and the outside world and how fucked up everything is, and the ugly part of himself that had made it that way.

He sinks back into oblivion when the Guard finally leaves his room. For a long time, he doesn’t move from his position and doesn’t bother checking to see what they’ve taken, body wrapped around the mass of blankets and sheets, pillow sandwiched between his head and arm. The tears that had welled at the corner of his eyes dry into a crust. The only passage of time he can really register is the light waning from slats of his window blinds, the daylight slowly melting into dusk and turning his room gray. He thinks briefly about the small stash of pills from Campbell stocked away in his nightstand and how it would help numb this — whatever it is. Not pain, really, but just a huge, wide expanse of nothingness, and the hopelessness of it all, the vague sense of despair that this is all his life has come to and all it will ever be. But mustering up the energy to roll over, sit up, and swallow one down seems colossal right now. Harry lets his eyes slide shut instead.

In some foggy part of his brain, he knows what’s happening. He’s not an idiot, and it’s true that he never asked what exactly Campbell was giving him, but he knows downers — even before all of this. His mother, her Ativan and wine, the Xanax stored with her makeup. But just like with everything else, he can’t bring himself to give an ounce of a shit.

He’s floating in and out of sleep when from somewhere within his sheets, his phone goes off, the screen dimly illuminating the room from beneath the covers. It’s been ages since anyone’s tried to contact him, since he blocked notifications from all unknown numbers after the slew of threats he’d gotten after Dewey’s trial.

He imagines it’s Mickey with some comment or other about the house, or perhaps Kelly, whom he knows feels a perfunctory sense of duty born of association to check on him every now and then. But when he sluggishly finds his phone and squints at the bright backlight, the notification is from someone he doesn’t expect at all.

_**Allie Pressman:** Hey. Sorry if I was harsh earlier. Part of the job, you know?_

Harry blinks. The absurdity of Allie apologizing to _him_ wakes him up some. Why is she texting him? Her visit, he can understand — she’s the leader, it has to look like she cares. And an official report was made on him, so of course she had to follow up.

He doesn’t know what makes him respond, but he does.

_**Harry Bingham:** Dw. I get it._

_**Allie Pressman:** Seriously though. Are you okay?_

Harry sleeps his screen after that one, burying his head back into his pillows. He doesn’t want to think about that question, because he doesn’t know the answer. 

If he wanted to, sure, he could get back up just fine, clean up his room, take a shower, eat a real meal, even show up at work again. He knows he’s perfectly capable of that. The rub is that he doesn’t want to; in fact, he can’t even imagine a time where he wanted to do anything other than lay here in this bed.

So he closes his eyes, ready to just sink back into nothingness, until his phone buzzes. Allie is calling him.

“Allie?” he asks when he picks up, throat dry. It’s been hours since he’s spoken, and even then it’d just been mumbled phrases.

“Harry. You didn’t answer the question,” Allie says on the other side. Having her voice so close to his ear, he feels that same strange nostalgia wash over him.

“Why are you calling me?”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Allie repeats.

“I’m fine,” he croaks. On the other line, Allie scoffs. It’s a feeble lie, and she can hear right through it.

“I know you only think I showed up earlier because it’s part of my job, but seriously, Harry. This — this isn’t like you. This isn’t Harry Bingham. It’s scaring me.”

He has no idea how to tell her that he doesn’t know who Harry Bingham is, that whatever self-inflated sense of identity he had come to this place with is long gone. He doesn’t know how to be that person anymore; sometimes the pills help, but when those wear off, he becomes whoever he is now, this person trapped in a wide chasm of nothingness that masks the dark gnawing away at his insides.

It’s not like he’s even had a particularly hard life, he knows — _other than the fact that you got someone killed_ , his mind supplies — but then again, his father’s life hadn’t seemed that difficult either. And look how that’d ended up. Everyone has their demons, he supposes. If this is how he’s dealing with his, then that’s his business.

“Don’t waste your time worrying about me,” Harry tells Allie. “I’m not worth it.”

There’s a long pause at the other end before Allie speaks again. “I’m coming over,” she says, and then hangs up.

Harry lets his phone fall from his grip and tries to muster up the energy to sit up, make himself and the room presentable now that he knows she’s coming. He doesn’t even try to think about why she would give enough of a shit to pay him a second visit, the mental gymnastics on that one too much for his exhausted mind to handle. Of course, what he ends up doing is rolling over to a new position, blinking sleepily at his desk on the other side of his bed, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the window.

There’s a neon sign hanging there, currently off, but he knows what it says: STAY CALM.

How ironic.

—

When she arrives, he still hasn’t moved from that position, staring blankly into space. She’s quiet when she enters the room, shutting the door softly behind her. She doesn’t flip the light switch on either, which he appreciates, until she turns the lamp on his nightstand on and the room is washed in its warm glow.

He blinks, bleary-eyed, and looks up at her. She looks the same as she had earlier, only now there’s a set in her jaw and something like pity in her eyes. _You don’t have to be ashamed,_ she said earlier today. And he wasn’t really, not then.

That’s different now, with Allie looking down at him and that horrible pity in her eyes, like he’s a helpless creature she stumbled upon and is deigning to help. He turns away so he doesn’t have to look at it.

“Harry,” she says, sitting down at the edge of the bed. “What’s going on?”

It’s not Allie the leader speaking, this time. The air of authority is gone from her voice, as is any threat of ration docking. Not that he cares in the slightest about that, which he’s sure she must have figured out.

It’s Allie, the girl he’s known since they were children, the one he went to school with for years and years but never really noticed, it’s Allie who kind of became his friend when they first got here, in those weeks before the night of prom.

“I just want to be alone,” he mumbles, and even he can hear it, it’s the most pathetic thing he’s ever heard in his life. But it’s true. He’s always been a good liar, but right now he can’t find the energy to do anything but speak the tired truth.

“Yeah, I got that,” Allie says matter-of-factly, and she puts a hand on his shoulder. There it is again — her initiation of contact, the warmth of her hand through the fabric of his shirt. He breathes out slowly, not knowing how to feel. “Okay,” she says, standing up and seeming to come to a decision. He thinks she’s taken one look at him and decided to leave him be, like a wounded animal who can’t be helped, until the covers are thrown unceremoniously off of him and he’s being quite literally dragged by his ankles to the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing?” he asks, startled enough to sit up.

“I’m helping you,” Allie says. There’s a hard look in her eye, shining bright and determined, and underneath that there’s something else — but Harry doesn’t dare let himself believe that it’s _care_.

“Why?” he asks, baffled. She doesn’t seem to know how to answer, blowing air out through her nose instead and grabbing him by the wrist to try to pull him out of bed.

“Come on. You need to take a shower.”

That much he can do, plus he’s scared of what might happen if he flops back down on the sheets like he wants to. Allie doesn’t fuck around, that much he knows.

The hot water helps, like he’s washing a layer of exhaustion from his skin. Not to mention the simple sensation of feeling clean again after who knows how long of lying in the same bed, in the same clothes. When he exits from the bathroom, hair damp and in a fresh set sweatpants and a t-shirt, Allie has cleaned up much of the mess in his room. All the clothes that had been piled on the floor are in the nearly bursting hamper, and the layers of trash are bagged neatly by the door.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mumbles in lieu of a thanks, feeling distinctly babysat.

She ignores this and instead sits down on his bed and looks up at him. Some part of him remembers the last time they’d been in this sort of position, only because she brought it up earlier today. It feels unimaginable that they’re the same people who snuck up here from the party, that he ever occupied the space in her mind that wanted things like that. A vague, distant part of him still wants it, now, but in a faraway sense — he can picture it, out of body, the old Harry leaning over and pushing her down onto the mattress, kissing her until she’s breathless, but the thought just makes him aware of how great a chasm has formed between then and now, with everything that’s happened in between.

“Harry,” she says, voice a lot gentler than he’d expected it to be. She pats the space on the newly made bed next to her, motioning for him to sit down. He does. “You can talk to me, you know.”

He hates that — the look of understanding in her eyes. Sure, he has no idea what she went through after Cassandra’s death and he knows it must have been awful but this feels different. He’s not grieving anything, he hasn’t experienced a tragic loss. He’s just…afloat. Untethered, being swallowed whole by a vast, terrifying emptiness.

“I just wish,” he begins, surprised that he’s even responding to her, “that I could go back. To before any of this. I just wish it all had never happened.”

Allie nods, understanding. “How do you think I feel?”

But Harry’s not talking about Cassandra. She’s part of it, sure, and the vindictive ugliness in him was another thing that played into it, the guilt weighing so heavy in his mind until he lets himself be crushed by it. But that’s not all — he wants to go further back. Before everything. Before Cassandra. Before Kelly. His father, the accident. The funeral. His mother, her distance. His sister, crawling into his bed at night while their parents screamed at each other downstairs. Until he’s a child again, nestled in these very sheets, excited because he’s concocted the perfect plan to stay home from school.

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying. Allie blinks, and he turns to look at her. Fully look at her, this time, not just a glance. She looks tired, dark circles imprinted under her eyes, but other than that she still looks like herself, impossibly pretty even as her eyes are wide and her mouth in a tight line, like she wasn’t expecting him to say that. “I know I tried to say it that time before but.” He clenches his jaw, suddenly overcome. “I wish I could take it back,” he whispers, tearing his gaze away from her because he can’t take it, the intensity of that look. “I wish—I wish it could have been me instead—“

He breaks off, the words suddenly stuck in his throat. There are unwelcome tears welling at the corner of his eyes and he holds his head in his hands. There it is: this is what’s behind that nothingness. The guilt, the grief, the self-loathing, the loss of his sense of identity, it all comes rushing in like a mighty river through a broken dam. He takes steady, deep breaths, but tears still spring forth.

And Allie, oh God, _Allie_ , she doesn’t say anything, just scoots close to him and puts an arm around him, brings his head to rest on her shoulder and rubs circles onto his back as he cries.

“Shh,” she says soothingly, and he’s struck again with how much he misses his mother. Not the one that they’d left behind a few months ago, but the one who cared enough to check on him in the morning, to brush his hair back from his face and stroke his cheek. He supposes it’s less about mothers, though, and more about the simple feeling of knowing that someone cares.

Allie doesn’t say anything for a long while as he cries, just pats him and holds him close. He feels simultaneously pathetic and grateful.

He feels drained when he finally stops, drained and exhausted and ready to once again crawl into bed and close his eyes. But Allie’s still there, breathing gently against him, rubbing her thumb in small circles against his shoulder. He feels small. Young.

She slowly gets up and moves to the other side of the bed, crawling up and lying down on top of the sheets and then gently takes his hand, tugging him downwards. Harry follows and they lie side by side on top of the covers, not touching except for where her hand is curled around his, soft and warm.

“After Cassandra died,” she says, her voice breaking through the heavy air around them, “I made Will sleep in my room with me. For weeks.”

Harry feels a weird twinge of something akin to jealousy, or maybe what’s supposed to be jealousy — it’s not like he had ever, ever been a source of comfort for her.

“I would have nightmares,” she continues. “And I wanted to be alone all the time, but having someone else there was the only thing that helped.”

“That was nice of him,” he says. His voice is hoarse. He can feel the exhaustion settling back over him, seeping into his bones; he still can’t tell if he feels better or not after crying in Allie Pressman’s arms. He’s too numb.

“Yeah,” Allie says, and then it’s quiet. He doesn’t know what they are, whatever this is between them. There’s no name or label for it that would describe it accurately. But he does know that it feels nice, having her hand in his and her presence next to him when they’re like this. Like the moment when she’d put her hand on his wrist and he held on, desperate for human connection, only magnified and drawn out.

Harry drifts off after a bit. When he wakes up, the lights are off, he’s under the covers, and Allie’s gone. His head pounds from the effort of his crying earlier.

He checks his phone, and there’s a message from her.

_**Allie Pressman:** Hope you feel better. I mean it._

He doesn’t deserve her hope, or whatever emotion had compelled her to come and see him; this much he knows. She sees in him something that’s not there anymore, a shadow of his former self. When she’s around, he can almost see it too — the line between who he was, who he is, and who he could be becomes blurry.

But she’s gone now, and he’s left once again the darkness of his room.

So Harry does the only thing he’s been consistent at ever since they got to this sham world. He disappoints. Himself, Allie, probably even Kelly. The wide expanse of nothingness isn’t quite there anymore, but the raw feeling still is. The guilt, the pain. 

It’s easy, sliding the drawer to his nightstand open and fishing out two of Campbell’s pills. It’s easy to swallow them, and then to close his eyes again and slip back into the void.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi. Are you Harry?” she blurts out. She’s standing above him, the midday sunlight haloed around her blonde curls. Harry has to squint to look at her.
> 
> "Yeah?"

The Pressmans move to West Ham when Allie is eight years old.

She’s excited because their new house is way bigger than their old one and she gets to have a room all to herself instead of sharing with Cassandra. It feels very grown up, to have a room all to oneself, and Allie can already imagine how she’s going to decorate it, with pretty, frilly bedspreads and dedicated spots for all her favorite stuffed animals.

The first night, though, she wakes up crying and scared because she’s never slept without Cassandra before and she might be young but she knows Cassandra is sick, so what if something bad happens? What if Cassandra is all alone and scared, too? She needs to be there for her sister.

“You’re such a baby, Allie,” Cassandra murmurs when Allie crawls into her bed and curls up against her. But she wraps her arms around Allie and holds her close all the same.

It’s spring, so their first day of school is in the middle of the semester. Allie’s nervous because that means everyone else has already been in school since September and they’re all friends with each other already and what if she can’t make any friends? But it’s not the worst because she knows she always has Cassandra, and her cousins Sam and Campbell also go to the same school.

Her teachers are really nice and to her relief, she’s in the same class as Sam and one of his friends, Becca, who shares some of her markers with Allie for their coloring activity. There’s also a boy, Will, who doesn’t have any lunch with him in the cafeteria, so Allie shares half of her PB&J with him and he smiles at her and she smiles back. 

Maybe things won’t be so bad here in West Ham.

—

Harry Bingham is annoyed. The other kids are playing soccer and they have an extra long recess period today because it’s the first real nice day of the year, but Harry doesn’t feel like playing.

He’s having a bad day. There’s a new girl in his class, Cassandra, and within just a day she’s already earned two gold stars. This is bad for Harry because he currently has three gold stars, and no one is supposed to have more gold stars than him. He ignores his friend Luke when he tries to convince him to come play, choosing instead to sit on the grassy patch outside the jungle gym, behind the two sapling trees his grade planted for Earth Day last year.

He can see Cassandra over on the blacktop, already surrounded by people and playing hopscotch. There’s another girl with her with the same blonde hair, only curly and longer. Her sister — he’s heard about her, but he doesn’t know her name.

Cassandra leans over and whispers something into her sister’s ear, and suddenly her head is whipping around to look dead on at Harry. He startles and then looks down, ripping up blades of grass in his fists just for something to do. He can hear her approaching, the quick patter of her footsteps as she runs over to him. He pretends to not see her, but that doesn’t really work.

“Hi. Are you Harry?” she blurts out. She’s standing above him, the midday sunlight haloed around her blonde curls. Harry has to squint to look at her.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Allie. I’m Sam’s cousin,” she says, as if he’s supposed to know what that means or who Sam is.

“Okay.”

“My sister told me you’re really popular.” She’s looking at him in a kind of intense way and he fidgets under her gaze.

In a vague sense, Harry can tell that yes, he’s popular, in whatever way nine year olds can be. His birthday parties are always packed and he always has the best goodie bags. Other grownups always say hi to his mom and dad when they’re out in public, and sometimes to Harry too. Everyone just seems to know who he is already.

“I guess,” he says, shrugging. 

“Great!” Allie says, smiling wide. And then she leans down, puts a hand on his shoulder, and kisses him square on the lips.

It’s just a simple peck, really, and it lasts all of half a second before she pulls away and smiles bright again, like nothing is wrong, like she didn’t just do something totally crazy.

“What was that for?” Harry asks, bewildered. He’s convinced Allie is the most peculiar person he’s ever met in his life.

“I bet my sister Cassandra before we moved here that my first kiss would be with the most popular boy in school. So there!” she says, delighted with herself. And then without so much as a goodbye, she turns on her heel and runs back over to her friends on the blacktop.

Harry, fighting the blush rising in his cheeks, quickly glances around to make sure no one’s seen, and goes back to ripping up blades of grass in his fists.

—

Allie forgets all about kissing Harry Bingham by the time she’s in middle school and attending her first ever party. She’s in eighth grade, which she hates — fifth grade, eighth grade, twelfth grade — all the years she’s apart from Cassandra.

But it’s not so bad yet since it’s only the beginning of the year. She’s only at this party because Cassandra got invited, and she’s excited by the mix of ninth and tenth graders in attendance. She feels very grown up. It’s at Kelly Aldrich’s house, and while Allie doesn’t really know her all that well, Kelly had smiled bright and welcomed her at the door when she and Cassandra had shown up.

Will is here too, and Allie’s excited to get to spend the evening with him. He has a calming presence and she likes having him around; he grounds her in this town that she’s discovered is full of rich snobs. And he’s hit a major growth spurt over the summer too, already outgrowing two pairs of shoes. Allie had felt bad and gotten him a new pair for his birthday, which he’d been hesitant to accept until she’d told him she bought them with all her babysitting money.

Harry Bingham is also here, which annoys Cassandra to no end and, by extension, annoys Allie too. She remembers the time when she was in sixth grade and they were in seventh grade when Harry had bragged to the entire school about scoring a point higher than Cassandra on their yearly standardized testing. Who does that?

Some of the high schoolers are drinking beer, but Allie politely refuses when she’s offered some and sticks to her Coke, too scared of how disappointed Cassandra might be than anything else. At some point, someone suggests they play party games, so she finds herself sitting in a circle around an empty glass bottle.

“It’s Truth or Dare, but with Spin the Bottle picking rules,” Kelly explains. “So whoever spins asks Truth or Dare to whoever it lands on.”

It starts off innocent. Kelly gets Becca and dares her to try and lick her elbow, Gordie is forced to do the chicken dance in the middle of the circle, Jason has to confess that his worst fear is something happening to his Maltipoo named Teacup.

But of course, things go into edgier territory as the game goes on. To her utter disbelief, Cassandra leaves a hickey on the neck of some high school kid she doesn’t know, and she finds out that Gwen has already kissed three boys.

When the bottle finally lands on her, Allie already knows what she’s going to say. She licks her lips and says, “Truth.”

Some of the guys in the circle boo, but Gwen just cocks her eyebrows and looks at her. “Okay Allie, tell us the truth. Who was your first kiss?”

Everyone turns to look at her, expectant. She swallows, eyes flitting around the circle, trying to avoid Cassandra’s gaze. In doing so, she catches eyes with Harry, who’s looking at her with a strange expression on his face, his eyes intent and brows raised, the hint of a smirk edging on his lips. Why is he looking at her like that?

“Um, I haven’t had it yet. Sorry to disappoint,” she says, and there’s a collective noise of disappointment throughout the circle.

“Hey!” Cassandra chides them, but Allie’s not looking at them. She’s looking at Harry, whose expression has morphed into one that’s entirely indecipherable. He looks disappointed, and a little upset, but she can’t imagine why. The weight of his gaze is starting to make her a little uncomfortable, and it doesn’t help at all when she spins next and it lands on him.

“Okay,” she says. “Uh, truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he responds immediately, like everyone knew he would.

“Uh…I dare you to kiss someone here,” Allie finds herself saying, with no clue where the idea came from or how the words have slipped out of her mouth.

For a split second, Harry looks shocked, like he can’t believe he’s been dared by her of all people to do such a thing. But he recovers smoothly and leans across the circle to plant a kiss directly on Kelly’s lips. When he pulls away, Kelly has this huge smile like he’s just given her the world, but Harry’s looking at Allie, something vindictive in his eyes that she can’t understand.

The game continues on after that, and Allie chooses to ignore the confusing tightness in her stomach for the rest of the night.

Allie never attends a party with Harry Bingham again after that, not until four years later when they find themselves sitting outside by his pool, brought together under the strangest of circumstances. 

He tells her about what she did when she was eight, and she finally figures out what that look had been all about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They were each other's first kiss and that was what Harry was telling her about by the pool and you absolutely cannot convince me otherwise!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That was it?” she asks when it’s done and they’re laying side by side.
> 
> “Yeah. That was...so great,” he breathes.
> 
> “For you, maybe,” she finally says, gathering her hair from his skin and spreading it out on the opposite side of the pillow. “Must have been nice.”

“We should go inside.”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind her words, the deliberate way she rounds her eyes and looks at him dead on. He catches on quickly, smirk edging at the corner of his lips attractively.

Allie doesn’t really know why she lets it happen, why she initiates it. Maybe it’s because this is the first night ever since they’ve gotten here where she really feels like things aren’t so different, aren’t so bad. And as much as she’s loath to admit it, that’s thanks to Harry and the fun night he had put together for everyone. Cassandra wouldn’t have been able to pull something like this off.

And she wants to feel like a dumb teenager again, wants to forget about the fact that she misses her parents, that she’s afraid she’ll never be able to see them again. Then there’s Harry, too, who had flirted with her so smoothly at the gas station that she found herself flirting back, who has a fast car and great hair. Who shares childhood memories of her that she’d forgotten all about (and somehow he’d held onto, even though they weren’t friends, weren’t anything, back in the real world).

It’s not exactly like Allie’s inexperienced. She’s not at Harry Bingham level, sure, but she’s kissed boys before. And there was the time Steven Fielding felt her up after homecoming in tenth grade, and then when she jerked him off kind of sadly the night before he moved with his family to New Haven.

Losing her virginity to Harry Bingham hadn’t been part of the plan, sure, but she doesn’t have any real hangups about it as he leads her upstairs to his massive bedroom. 

That is, until it’s over before she really knows it. They’d both been too impatient, spurred on by the spontaneity of it all, to do anything more than sloppily make out for a little before the clothes are off and Allie finds herself pressed against the sheets, Harry on top of her and breathing heavy in her ear.

“That was it?” she asks when it’s done and they’re laying side by side, Harry having just caught his breath.

“Yeah. That was...so great,” he breathes, playing with the ends of her hair still splayed over his chest. She furrows her eyebrows a little ironically at that, because — _really?_

There’s a long silence before she says anything else, time in which she stares up at the crown molding of the ceiling and tries to make sense of her life. If someone had told her even a month ago that one: she would have sex with Harry Bingham, and two: it would be disappointing, she would have laughed in their face.

She can guess Harry is still coming off of his high and settling into that mellowed out feeling by the way he still toys with her hair between his fingers and the way his breath evens out.

“For you, maybe,” she finally says, gathering her hair from his skin and spreading it out on the opposite side of the pillow. “Must have been nice.”

For a moment, Harry doesn’t say anything. Then in a flash, he leans up on his elbow and looks down at her, disbelief in his eyes. “Wait, are you saying you…? You didn’t—” He gestures blankly with his hand. 

Allie just kind of flattens her lips into a line and shrugs. There had been a moment there as he was moving above her where the heat pooled in her belly began to expand, spurred on by the warmth of his skin against hers, his breath against the shell of her ear. He whispered her name and she closed her eyes, ready to lose herself in it, and then — and then it was over.

For his part, Harry looks deeply offended, as if it’s _her_ fault that he didn’t manage to get her off. Allie rolls her eyes.

“It’s fine,” she says, sitting up in bed. “Don’t worry about it, let’s just go back downstairs.”

He grabs her wrist as she’s sliding to the edge of the mattress, ready to put her clothes back on and rejoin the others, and pulls her back into the sheets.

“Hey!” she protests, but he’s looking at her with a little desperation in his eyes. He looks young, she realizes, young and brash and every bit like the eighteen year old boy he is, no more capable or worldly than she is.

“Let me make it up to you,” he says lowly, hand moving to her bare waist and staying there. His skin is still flush and slightly damp with sweat, which should gross her out, but instead it feels nice.

“Seriously? No offense, but I don’t think you can handle it yet.”

His cheeks color at that, but he barrels on. “No, but there are...other things. I can help you.”

She gets it. “You don’t have to do that, Harry. It’s fine. It’s not like I’m gonna tell anyone,” she replies dryly, but she doesn’t move away from him.

“I don’t care about that,” Harry says. “I just — I had a lot of fun with you tonight, before this. And it was good for me. Let me make it good for you, too.” Strangely, he looks sincere — and even more strange, she believes him.

When Allie doesn’t say anything in response, he takes it as an agreement and moves close to mouth softly at her neck. Allie just sighs kind of resignedly, even though it does feel good. 

Some of the heat that had dissipated earlier re-enters her bones, warming her from the inside. She doesn’t know what to make of Harry Bingham, even as his hands move to finally unclasp her bra that’s been on this entire time, even as he kisses across her collarbones and in the curve of her shoulder as his hands slide across her skin. 

One moment, he’s acting like a pompous, spoiled rich boy in front of everyone at the church, challenging authority, making her kind of want to punch him in the face. One moment he’s hot and charming, looking at her through those unfairly long lashes. One moment he’s sincere, telling her he’s never really seen her before, the fact that he does now implied underneath. One moment he’s laying beside her, too oblivious in his alpha-male bliss to even realize he’d been entirely selfish in bed.

She guesses it doesn’t really matter because he’s here now, in all his handsome, confusing glory, sliding a hand between her bare legs where, embarrassingly, she’s still wet enough from earlier for it to feel incredibly good when he puts his fingers there.

“There’s a lot of things you can say about me,” Harry murmurs against her skin, “but you can’t say I’m bad at this. I won’t have it.”

“I’m pretty sure I can,” Allie says, but then her breath hitches when he sliders a finger in and curls it just so. “It was pretty disappointing, you know?”

“You wound me,” he says, moving his hand steadily. And then he’s mouthing a line down her body, trailing kisses lower and lower until he’s between her thighs and — wow. Harry Bingham, hair wild and eyes dark, looking up at her from that position is not a sight she’s going to forget anytime soon.

He turns out, of course, to be right — he’s _not_ bad at it, quite the opposite, frustratingly. Allie stops thinking about the absurdity of everything, of where they are and what’s happened to them, when she combs her fingers through his curls and closes her eyes, letting herself go in the moment.

When it’s over for real this time and they’re pulling their clothes back on, she feels acutely like the seventeen year old girl she is, trying to work out where they go from here, what happens next. She doesn’t think she wants to be with Harry, and she’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to be with her. But something about it doesn’t quite scream fun distraction, one-night stand either, even though she knows that’s what they’re both taking it as on face value.

These are the problems she wants to have, the same ones she’d be facing if all this had happened in the real world, trivial and easy. Not anxieties about self-governance and time travel and kidnapping, but this — a tenuous connection between a boy and a girl.

But then the power goes out and people downstairs start making a commotion, and she knows that those problems are going to have to be put on hold for the bigger ones, the ones that determine whether or not they as a group can get through this, the ones that she can’t help solve if she’s sleeping with her sister’s nemesis at the same time.

She’s glad, though, that she got the chance to just be a teenager again. She’s sure Harry had wanted that, too, even with fugitive and the party and everything. “I think we have to go,” she says, and he nods. She knows they understand each other.

They go back downstairs into the chaos and are never really teenagers again after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact that it's canon that Harry is a bad lay literally kills me


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can we talk? Not — not here, I mean…just us.”
> 
> Allie’s clenches her jaw for a second and then answers.
> 
> “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
> 
> She’s already killed someone. What more of herself can she lose from a conversation with Harry?

The armchair she’s sitting in was her dad’s favorite.

He would come home after a long day of work, or come in on the weekends after spending a couple hours working on the yard, and just sit in the armchair with a long sigh. When she was little, Allie would giggle and crawl into his lap and he would pretend that the armchair was a boat, rocking it back and forth until she screamed with delight. He sat here most Sunday mornings, pencil tucked behind his ear, trying to figure out the crossword in the paper while her mom made breakfast for all of them.

Allie’s sitting in it now, tears pricking behind her eyes as she listlessly watches Jason and Clark play a video game and the rest of them observe silently, soberly. What would her father think of her, she wonders, if he knew she’d just killed someone?

Jason and Luke probably think the same, but she knows the bullet had been from her gun. The snap of the trigger, the pushback, the release. The loud, piercing shot through the air, the instantaneous hit. Her eyes, wide open, as if she could see the trajectory of the bullet fire from the tip of her gun and into the flesh of Dewey’s neck in slow motion, wondering if her sister had seen the same thing but from the opposite end. His head hanging there, after, limp and boneless, blood pooling at his nape, and Allie feeling no sense of justice having been served.

The line between life and death is so tenuous, so thin, she realizes as she looks at Greg Dewey’s lifeless body. It’s something she’s been aware of, ever since Cassandra’s first hospital visit, but to face it like this — to be the one arbitrating it — that’s something else. Something sick roils in her stomach, but she forces it down.

He did this, she realizes as she sits there. He murdered her sister, and then made a murderer of her, too.

Allie barely registers Will offering her a beer; she doesn’t respond. And then there’s another presence in the room, someone walking in from the front door which has been left wide fucking open, absurdly. But then again, every member of the Guard is in here with her, awash with the blue light of the television. Allie doesn’t bother turning her head to look. It could be anyone. She doesn’t give a shit.

“Fuck are you doing here?” Will asks. That narrows it down to two likely people.

“Hey, Allie,” Harry says lowly. He sounds unsure, unlike himself. “Allie…”

“What do you want?” she asks quickly, staring straight ahead, willing the tears in her eyes to stay there.

“Can we talk? Not — not here, I mean…just us.”

Allie’s quiet for a long moment. She can see everyone else in the room staring at Harry. Will looks furious, and Jason looks like he’s ready to throw him out of the room. She can’t see Harry, but she can feel him standing behind her armchair, shifting his weight awkwardly. She clenches her jaw for a second and then answers.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

She’s already killed someone. What more of herself can she lose from a conversation with Harry?

She doesn’t look at him when she stands and heads up the stairs to her room. No one other than Harry follows her, and it’s dead silent save for the sound of their footsteps. No one protests either, because they all know the truth, now — Harry is no threat. He’s all empty, cowardly words.

Harry’s looking around her room awkwardly when she sits down on the bed and looks at him, stone-faced. She can see him peering around, taking it all in — this a true look behind the curtain, bits and pieces of who she is infused in every detail around the room. Her clothes hanging in the open closet. Her discarded sweaters on the floor, the ruffle of her bedspread. The collection of polaroids she has taped up on her wall — most of them are of her and Cassandra. Harry sees this and swallows dryly.

“So?” Allie says, sensing that he doesn’t want to be the one to speak first. Her eyes have dried some by now. “You wanted to talk?”

She already knows what he’s here to say. Part of her just wants to hear him say it so she can throw the apology back in his face and kick him out of her house. Another part of her can see how tortured he looks.

“Um,” he begins, not meeting her eye. “I’m...sorry. I’m so sorry for what happened and what I said. I never meant for…any of this—any of that to turn into—“ He falters, seemingly losing his train of words.

Allie breathes deep. The anger is back now.

“Okay. And what are you going to do about it?” She cuts him off before he can begin speaking again. This had been a bad idea, she realizes now. She doesn’t want an apology from him, no matter how sincere it may be, no matter how regretful Harry actually is. Because, despite everything, she can see that it’s true — Harry really is sorry. She knows some part of him is seeking forgiveness as well, but she has none to give. And if that condemns him to a forever version of this despaired-looking Harry she sees before her, then so be it. She doesn’t care. She’s not the keeper of his conscience, and just because Harry Bingham has finally realized that his actions bear consequences doesn’t mean that she has to accept.

“W-what?” He doesn’t seem to be expecting that question and he finally meets her eyes. He looks disheveled and desperate, a far cry from the button down-wearing, perfectly styled Harry from their normal lives.

“I said, what are you going to do about that?” Her words are sharp, anger finding its way through the numbness that had fallen over her earlier. “What good is your apology to me? It’s not going to make my sister come back. And it’s not going to make it so that I didn’t just shoot somebody in the head.”

The words bring back the memory, clearly, the awful rush of power racing down her arm as the barrel snapped back. The reality of looking at someone who had done something terrible now _dead_ , and she had made him that way.

“I—I didn’t know that you were the one who…I thought the Guard would have,” Harry says lamely. He looks even more tortured now, like his world is falling down around him. She can see it in his expression — he knows it’s his fault, that this happened. That two people are dead because of him. Because of stupid, thoughtless words that maybe he didn’t mean, but their consequences still bore down on them all the same.

“I did,” she snaps. “They couldn’t do it. But I could. And what does that make me?” Her voice is trembling now. There’s a picture of her and Cassandra on her nightstand from the night of Allie’s sixteenth birthday. They’re holding sparklers in their hands, facing each other and laughing. “What do you think Cassandra would think if she knew what I did?”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, shrinking under her questioning. Some part of her feels a vicious glee at how pale and unsteady he looks. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. Her voice has lost its earlier snap and the tears are back, burning hot and sharp in the corner of her eyes. “It doesn’t matter because she’s _dead_. And that’s on you. And her killer is dead too — that’s on me.”

After that, she can’t hold back the tears anymore. They fall freely and she lets out a sort of choked, strangled sob that she tries to hide in her hands. She closes her eyes and bows her head, hating that this is happening in front of Harry. But instead of commenting or turning to leave, he shuffles forward until he’s standing next to her and tentatively places a hand on her shoulder as she cries.

In another life, in another world, she might have had Harry Bingham in her room under different circumstances. The night they played fugitive isn’t too far off from something that could have happened back home. The thought crosses her mind and it’s almost funny, the wild absurdity of it, how far removed they are now from that reality. Allie finds herself reaching up and grasping Harry’s hand at her shoulder, hating the fact that in that moment, they must be the only two people in town who understand each other’s feelings.

They’ve both killed someone. Harry, unintentionally, just by way of carelessness and ugliness. Allie, deliberately, arbitrating some sick kind of justice that they’ve decided for themselves. Who gave them this kind of authority, she wonders?

She feels wetness on the back of her hand and realizes that Harry is sitting down next to her now, head bowed close near her shoulder where their hands are clasped, and that he’s crying too. Strangely enough, she’s never felt so close to another person before, to be occupying the same depth of emotion, the same awful torrent of regret, shame, anger, hopelessness. 

But that closeness doesn’t make her feel any better. She may get Harry’s conflict and why he’d felt the need to come here and apologize to her, but it doesn’t help. She’s not ready to forgive, not yet, and when her tears go all that’s left is the same dull fury she felt before. The moment of strange understanding between the two of them is over.

Allie lets go of his hand. “Get out,” she says in a whisper.

“What?” he asks blearily, lifting his head.

“Get out,” she repeats, clearer and more forceful this time. She’s not ready for this, not ready to face that depth quite yet.

“Yeah,” he says, standing up, realizing that he must have crossed an invisible line. He wipes his tears quickly and, without another word, quietly leaves her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far, thank you for reading! I've also made a [tumblr](https://dystopians.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to chat or send prompts while the entire world is just quarantined at home.


End file.
